A Joker and a Thief
by lolcatsmanseven
Summary: Two mercenaries with a tragic past find themselves shipwrecked in Equestria. One is a taciturn and unfeeling swordsman. The other is a happy go lucky thief. They find themselves in a land under siege by slavers, and must balance combat, with overcoming the ghosts of their pasts.


Two men were lying on a beach. The morning sun was beating down on them, and they had sought refuge from it by sitting in the meager shade provided by a makeshift shelter. By the looks of it, their shelter had been crudely nailed together out of mismatched pieces of wood; given the large quantities of wooden scrap nearby, it was clear where they had gotten their building materials from.

The shorter of the men had a mop of long curly brown hair that nearly covered his eyes. His face was an angry shade of red; he was actually quite tan, but had spent a lot of time in the sun recently. He was wearing a dark grey bandana, with a matching long cloak. He wore a white long-sleeved t-shirt and black pants. Strapped to his waist was a silver dagger.

Sitting next to him on the sand was a tall man resting in the shade of a white, frilly parasol. His very long blond hair completely covered the right side of his face, and was tied in a loose ponytail in the small of his back. Folded next to him was a white jacket with the word "LOVE" printed across the shoulders in large, pink lettering. He was wearing a dark grey shirt that had a short mesh sleeve on his left arm, and a solid sleeve that extended to his right elbow. He wore a dirty, dark blue glove that covered his right arm up to his elbow. On his waist was a bright crimson sash, and underneath that was a loose pair of forest green pants. He was barefoot, with a pair of geta sandals laying in the sand next to him.

"There must be some way out of here." The tall one said to the other as he adjusted his parasol so it would continue to provide him the maximum sun protection. He sighed, and gave up trying to fit his entire body in the shade. "I can't get no relief."

The sunburned man lifted up his head and responded, "Hey, you sighed! The heat's gotten you that worked up? Regardless of your impassioned state, what do you want me to do about it, Clarín?"

"I don't know, Søren. Why don't you stand in front of me to block the sun?" Clarín calmly suggested.

Søren sighed as he let his head drop down onto the sand. "Why are you even complaining? You have that girly parasol to protect your skin from the sun, and you drank most of the water."

Clarín serenely replied, "So what if I planned ahead? It's still uncomfortably warm."

His companion did not respond, and the pair lapsed into a relaxed silence. It would have been obvious to an observer, had there been one, that the two were quite comfortable with each other.

Several hours later, the two were in much the same positions. The only visible difference was that, despite being in the shade, Søren's skin had gotten even redder, whereas Clarín's pale skin still appeared much the same.

The day had grown hotter, and more humid, and even Clarín's clothes had become drenched with sweat. The pair hadn't exchanged any words for hours.

Suddenly, Søren broke the silence, his face contorting into a manic grin. "Whoa! Clarín, do you see all of the pretty butterflies?"

Clarín looked all around, but didn't see any butterflies. Regardless, he said, "Yeah, I do see the butterflies. Hey, why don't you go try and catch some?"

Søren's manic grin grew even larger, if that was possible. He leapt to his feet with a shout of joy, and began running around with his arms outstretched. He laughed as he chased the elusive, imaginary butterflies.

At length, he fell to the ground exhausted. He sighed, and turned his head to look at his traveling partner. "There weren't any butterflies, were there?"

Clarín shook his head, and responded while unemotionally, "Nope."

The sun had inched past noon, and Søren had estimated the time to be around 3:30 in the afternoon. Even Clarín had nearly lost the energy to be rude. The silence was again broken.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Søren turned his head to glance at his somewhat-friend. He saw that Clarín had gotten to his feet, and was holding the handle of his parasol threateningly. For the first time all day, his face expressed an emotion: rage. Søren grew slightly worried, and asked, "Who are you talking to?"

Clarín didn't answer. Instead, he continued to shout. "You think that you can just come back, and everything is gonna be ok? You think that we just gotta get 'pumped for life?' Huh, Silas?"

Søren sat up on his elbows as he stared at Clarín who had stopped shouting, but was continuing to brandish his parasol. He raised his eyebrow as Clarín gnashed his teeth and continued.

"You would think so, wouldn't you? Yeah, well I've got news for you! You're dead!"

Clarín put a hand on the end of his parasol, and yanked it off, revealing the gleaming 40-inch blade of a colichemarde. He gave a swift thrust, before bringing the tip of the blade towards the ground, almost as if he was parrying an invisible blade. He stabbed and fainted and parried skillfully, but as his 'battle' wore on his attacks grew progressively wilder. After several minutes he was merely swinging his sword. Eventually, he simply dropped his sword, and started swinging his fists. His breath came out in panting gasps, yet still he continued shouting.

"I saw you die! You can't come back from that! You can't be here! You can't… be… real… oh."

Clarín let out a breath, and seemed to deflate. He sat down heavily on the sand, and reset his parasol. It had been a long day to go without water.

The sun was now descending in earnest, and the two wanderers were in much the same position. Clarín was lightly napping, while Søren was playing a sorrowful melody on a small harp. He had been playing for hours, and was ready to give up.

Crack.

Søren didn't look up, and continued to play. It had sounded like someone, or something, had stepped on a piece of wood. If whoever made that noise was hostile, it would not be prudent to show that he knew something was out there. Still playing with one hand, he picked up a pebble and threw it at Clarín, who woke up dispassionately. He looked over at Søren, and started to speak impassively.

"Why would you-" Clarín stopped when he saw the expression on his partner's face. For Søren to look that serious, something must be seriously wrong. He put his hand on his parasol, and waited. Meanwhile Søren continued to softly strum his harp.

Shuffle. Shuffle. Shuffle.

Both now knew for sure that something was out there, and by the sounds of the sand shuffling, they were surrounded. Clarín's face remained blank, but he stood up carrying his umbrella. Søren strapped his harp to his back, under his cloak, and he too stood up. Neither were completely prepared for what awaited them.

The saw a dozen large, canine like creatures wearing primitive, iron armor and clutching crude spears. The largest one was grey and about seven feet tall, putting him about a foot taller than Clarín, and a foot and eight inches taller than Søren. All the others were around six feet.

Søren started chuckling, while Clarín merely raised an eyebrow. The dogs clearly bore ill will.

Søren's laughter grated on the canines, who fancied themselves rather intimidating. Normally, their prey would either run, or surrender. It was extremely rare for them to run into creatures their size, but that would simply make them better slaves.

They started growling, and a brown one wearing a vest instead of armor demanded, "Why are you laughing at us?"

Søren answered between giggles. "It's… It's just that we thought nothing worse could happen to us, and then we go and get ourselves surrounded by werewolves. It's just funny, is all."

Clarín merely yanked the top of his umbrella off, revealing the blade.

The brown canine answered, somewhat confused. "We are not werewolves, we are Diamond Dogs! And you will be our slaves. ATTACK!" All of the dogs rushed the two surrounded humans at once. The dogs lowered their spears

Søren's face grew stern at the mention of 'slaves.' He put a hand on the hilt of his dagger, and pulled it from its sheath at his hip. As soon as the tip was free from the sheath, he muttered, "Flight of Shadows." And he disappeared.

Clarín smirked, for the first time that day, and solemnly intoned, "Heavenly Step."

The self-proclaimed Diamond Dogs ignored the disappearance of the shorter one, and focused on the remaining creature. They got closer and closer, and didn't notice Søren winking into view behind the dog closest to the back of the charge, and they didn't hear the chocked cry of the dog as his throat was cut. The dogs were within arms reach of Clarín, he vanished in a white flash, kicking up a small pebble.

With another white flash, Clarín reappeared with his blade piercing the throat of a surprised dog.

The pebble was an inch above the ground.

The charging dogs attempted to turn and face Clarín, but he vanished in his trademark flash, and reappeared with his sword in the abdomen of a dog, then again piercing the heart of a dog, and again with his sword severing a dog's spine.

White flashes were seen all over their tiny battlefield, as wounds became visible on almost every dog. Droplets of blood flew through the air, and if one had extremely fast reactions, one might make out brief flashes of steel.

The pebble hit the sand, along with eleven bodies. In another white flash, Clarín was standing where he had started. The brown dog was stunned. Almost all of his pack had been killed in seconds. His ears lowered, and he whimpered in terror. He lowered himself and whined, "I surrender! Pl-please let me go."

Clarín didn't respond, and instead looked down at his gloved right hand. His expression darkened almost imperceptibly. "You got blood on my glove."

The dog was groveling. "Wait, I'll help you! I'll be your slave! Just, please don't kill me!"

He let out a terrified whimper as Søren winked into existence in right front of him. Søren glared down at him, then pointed his knife at his throat.

"You're a slaver, aren't you?"

The dog gave a fearful nod.

"Then this is justice for the blood on your hands."

The dog's eyes widened, and he begged, "Wait-"

He was silenced by a silver blade slitting his throat, and nearly decapitating him. Blood gurgled out of his neck, and he clawed at it, weakly. After several seconds, his eyes dulled, and he fell over backwards. A terrified expression was frozen on his face, his unseeing eyes wide with terror.

"That was brutal, huh?" Clarín asked of his companion.

Søren looked over his shoulder at his partner, who had replaced the parasol on his colichemarde.

"Don't act like you didn't enjoy it." Søren replied distastefully.

"Well, actions like that are the center point of my life, so why shouldn't I come to enjoy it?" Clarín said as he leaned his parasol on his shoulder to block out the sun. "Since you're closest to the leader dog, why don't you check him for a map?"

Clarín sighed, and bent down to check the body. His hands were searching the dog's vest pockets, when he again heard sounds that suggested they were surrounded. He looked up, and saw a stone-faced Clarín in a stare down with a three-foot tall unicorn in golden armor.


End file.
